He's Like the Son I Might Have Known
by TheatreGhost-316
Summary: Sequel to "To Drive the Cold Winter Away." After saving Gavroche's life once already, Javert feels a sense of responsibility toward the boy. When Gavroche joins the revolution, Javert follows him to the barricades. Will the Inspector's watchful eye be enough to keep Gavroche out of harm's way?
1. Good Evening, Dear Inspector

**Hello, dear readers! This story is a sequel to my previous story "To Drive the Cold Winter Away"––it can be read as a stand-alone piece, but some parts of it will make more sense if you read that story first. I know I said the sequel would be published in January…clearly it is no longer January. My apologies. This was originally going to be a one-shot, but it ended up taking a lot longer than I anticipated, and life has been kind of crazy lately (in a good way, but still, not enough time for writing). **

**This story is dedicated, as a late birthday present, to my dear friend Lee Eliot, who gave me a new respect for Javert and the inspiration to write a sequel. **

Inspector Javert lived a solitary life. His days were filled with his police work; when the day's work was finished, he retired to an old house in a quiet corner of Paris and spent the evenings reading in front of the fire. He was on civil terms with his housekeeper, though he seldom had much to say to her other than, "Thank you, Mme. Pascal." He had nearly convinced himself he needed no one else.

One winter's night, this lonely life of his took an unexpected turn when he found himself suddenly in charge of three children by the name of Thénardier. The boy, Gavroche, was seriously ill; his two sisters were frantic with worry. Their family was the last with which he would have chosen to associate himself, but his sense of duty would not allow him to abandon them. Over the course of several weeks, he sat up night after night with Éponine, caring for Gavroche. He witnessed Azelma's eagerness to show her appreciation by helping around the house. The simplest things suddenly seemed of great importance. The dreary days passed more quickly than he had ever thought possible; the once quiet evenings were filled with storytelling and song. Slowly, Javert felt something begin to stir in his heart that he had not felt for a long time.

Then, as suddenly as the children had entered his life, they were gone. He knew their time together could not last––the girls, after all, were both in their teens, old enough to be self-sufficient; and Gavroche was a free-spirited little imp who would not abide any sort of confinement. His solitary life seemed even lonelier now, in their absence.

He saw them occasionally: Éponine and Azelma trailing behind their parents like sullen shadows; Gavroche roaming the streets, getting into some sort of mischief or other. The girls would always have each other, and they had a home, however unfriendly a place it might be. But Gavroche, some years ago, had been thrown out on the streets to fend for himself. After what they had been through, Javert could not help feeling a slight sense of responsibility for the boy. He was careful not to publicly acknowledge any relationship between them. Gavroche would have been utterly disgraced if the other street waifs knew he was friends with a "cop"––though Gavroche occasionally paid him the compliment of some cheeky remark or other.

Recently, Javert had been keeping an eye on a group of university students who had been stirring up trouble for quite some time. Their recent exploits included handing out incendiary pamphlets to illiterate beggars, delivering impassioned speeches in public squares, and an impromptu street rally. Revolution was in the air; Javert had sensed it coming some time ago. Often he had seen Gavroche hanging around this group of rabble-rousers. No doubt their talk of fighting for freedom and justice all sounded very exciting to a young boy. They saw themselves as defenders of the people, delivering them from oppression and poverty, like the heroes of old. What boy wouldn't love to be one of them?

When the request came from the National Guard for an undercover policeman to join the ranks of the students and report back to them, Javert volunteered for the job. After all, he had served in the army, as a much younger man, and he felt it was his duty to his country to help maintain order in its capital. That was what he told the chief of police. But as Javert pulled on a workman's jacket and pinned a red, white, and blue cockade to his shirt, he knew there was another reason he wanted to be in the students' ranks: Gavroche would be at the barricade.

…

Javert followed a couple of students through the winding streets and back alleys. He saw three young men carrying a table down the street. Two more ran by, one carrying two or three muskets and one with a long piece of red fabric that looked like it had once been a tablecloth, or possibly a curtain, draped over his shoulder, flapping behind him like a cloak. Javert shook his head; they were mere boys, playing at going to war. He hoped their insurrection could be put down without too much bloodshed.

The two students he was following turned a corner into a broader street in front of a café where he had noted they often gathered. The street was already obstructed by a large pile of broken furniture, overturned carts, and other rubbish. Several students were milling about the place, building up their barricade, inspecting their weapons, scribbling out poems on scraps of paper. A couple of young men were removing the door of the café from its hinges. The old woman who owned the establishment was scolding them; one of the boys kissed her, silencing her protests. She retreated up the stairs while the door was carried off to fortify the barricade. A few young men came down a side street pushing a cart full of assorted firearms. Gavroche was standing on top of the pile, singing at the top of his voice. Javert recognized the red scarf that hung loosely around the boy's neck as the one he had given Gavroche last winter. The coat Javert had given him had disappeared long ago, though Javert had seen another urchin running around in one that looked suspiciously like it––Gavroche was not practical, but at least he was generous. But the scarf he was never without, even in the heat of June. Red was the color of the revolution. Many of the students wore red sashes or armbands; the boy was probably trying to imitate his heroes. Still, Javert could not help wondering if perhaps Gavroche had not entirely forgotten about him.

One of the men pushing the cart gripped Gavroche under the arms and lifted him down. The boy scampered off toward the barricade, intent on being in the center of the action. A fair-haired young man stepped out of the café; the others clamored around him, ready to receive their orders. Javert drew closer and slipped into the crowd.

"Combeferre," said the young man to one of his comrades, "you will be in charge of distributing weapons. Feuilly, I want you to make an inventory of supplies. Joly, you are in charge of turning this café into a field hospital. And I will need someone to give a report on the army; find out exactly what we are up against." Javert stepped forward. "I will go, Monsieur Enjolras," he said, "I served in the army myself when I was a young man; I am well familiar with their ways. I can find out everything you need to know."

"Very well," said Enjolras, "Thank you, citizen."

Javert raised his hand in a respectful salute. As he left the barricade, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Gavroche. The boy was at the highest point of the barricade with one of the students, installing a red flag on top of the heap of rubble. Nothing could quench the child's spirit. Javert hoped for his sake the revolution could be stopped quickly.

…

It was early evening by the time Javert returned to the barricade. "Who goes there?" shouted the young lookout, pointing a rifle at the figure approaching through the shadows. Javert stepped into a patch of light, and held out the cockade on his shirt. "Oh, pardon me, Monsieur––er, citizen," the student stammered. "Put that gun down before you hurt someone," Javert muttered, striding past the young man. Enjolras saw him approach and greeted him with a nod. "Citizen, what is your report?" he asked.

"The odds are vastly against us, sir," said Javert, "They more than triple us in numbers. Each man is armed; they have cannons as well." He lowered his voice, but not so much that the men closest to them could not hear. "I'm afraid our men are no match for them, sir."

"Have faith, citizen," said Enjolras, clapping a hand on Javert's shoulder. "If we know their movements, we can turn their own strategies against them. Though we may be few in number, we can still overcome them. Tell us what you heard."

"There will be no attack tonight," said Javert. "As far as I can tell, they intend to wait until our supplies have dwindled and morale is low before they attack in full force. When they do attack, they will come from the right, and then––"

From the top of the barricade, a shrill voice rang out. "Liar!"

Javert looked up to see Gavroche grinning down at him. "Good evening, dear Inspector," he said. He scrambled down the pile of furniture. "Friends," he said, "allow me to introduce Monsieur Javert––Police Inspector."

At the word "police," several of the students immediately leveled their firearms at Javert. "Police Inspector, eh?" said one of the young men, seizing Javert's arm, "That would make you a government employee, wouldn't it?"

"Spying for the government, eh? Shame on you, Inspector," said Gavroche, clicking his tongue as if he were reproving a naughty child. "Looks like the mouse got the cat this time." Javert gritted his teeth and glared at the pavement. _You little fool_, he thought, _Could you not keep quiet?_ Something in him had to admire the child's spunk in standing up for a cause he believed in; he only wished Gavroche's patriotism had expressed itself by other means.

"Bravo, little Gavroche!" cried one of the students, ruffling the boy's hair. Two other young men had taken hold of Javert, far more roughly than Javert thought necessary, pinning his arms behind his back. "Enjolras, what you want us to do with this traitor?" one of them asked their fair-haired leader. "Kill him!" one of the students suggested; the others nodded in agreement. "No––no, wait! Wait!" Gavroche cried. He leapt onto an overturned cart, trying to get the men's attention. "Don't kill him!"

"Gavroche," said Enjolras, "this man is a spy and an enemy of the republic. He must be made an example."

"But wouldn't it be a better example to leave him alive––and make him watch the little people triumph?"

Enjolras pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Take him inside the café and tie him up," he said to the young men who were holding Javert, "The people will decide your fate, Inspector Javert."

"Shoot me now or shoot me later," Javert said, struggling against the two men who held him, "You'll still have blood on your hands. You have no authority to decide matters of life and death. I suggest you give it some serious thought, Monsieur Enjolras, before you jeopardize your friends' lives as well as your own!"

The students dragged Javert roughly inside the café and bound him to a chair. "Do not underestimate the power of the people, Inspector," one of them said, probably echoing on one of Enjolras' speeches, "We will fight for a better future. And we will triumph."

"Fools," Javert muttered.


	2. When Little People Fight

From his position, tied to a chair, facing the corner of the room, Javert could see nothing of the action going on outside the café; he heard only the nearest shouts. After a while, the sound of gunfire ripped through the silence. One of the young men rushed inside the café, dragging a reluctant someone with him. "I don't want to stay in here," Javert heard Gavroche's voice protest, "I want to fight!"

"We don't have enough weapons," the student told him, "Now, I need you to stay in here and…guard the prisoner!"

"He didn't need a guard before the fighting started," said Gavroche, "How come somebody's got to watch him all of a sudden?"

"True, but, um…in all the confusion it would be easier for him to escape, now wouldn't it? And we can't have that, can we? So can you stay here and keep an eye on him?"

"Fine," Gavroche muttered. He dragged a chair across the rough wooden floor and sat down astride the seat, his arms folded across the back of the chair. "Hello, Gavroche," said Javert. Gavroche scowled. "No talking, prisoner," he said. "For pity's sake, Gavroche," Javert sighed, "Neither of us wants to be stuck here. The least we can do is be civil to one another."

"You're a traitor and a spy. I don't have to talk to you."

"You're a pickpocket and a swindler. I don't owe you anything either."

"Fine."

For a while, both of them were silent. When he next spoke, Javert nearly had to shout to be heard over the noise of the battle.

"This isn't a game, Gavroche," he said, "You don't belong in the middle of a battle. You could be killed."

"You think I don't know that? If kids younger than me are old enough to starve to death on the streets, I'm old enough to die fighting for them."

"Do you really think this rebellion is going to change anything?"

"It'll show that _some_ people have the guts to stand up for what they believe in."

"Gavroche, I want to see reform as much as you do––"

"No you don't!" Gavroche declared fiercely, "If you really cared about people like my friends, and my sisters, and me, you'd be fighting with us!"

As the noise of the battle began to die down, a high-pitched scream rang out. Gavroche bolted out of the café, knocking over the chair he had been sitting on. Javert craned his neck, trying to see what had happened. He heard several voices speaking in hushed murmurs; at least one voice was choked with tears. Then Javert heard Gavroche cry out:

"Eponine!"

Eponine? What was Eponine doing here? What made these children so intent on putting themselves in harm's way?

Two of the students walked slowly into the café, carrying a body between them. They laid the lifeless form on the floor. Javert stole a glance out of the corner of his figure was dressed in boy's clothes, but it was the body of a girl. A patch of light from the window fell across her face––a face Javert knew all too well._ No_, he thought, _No, no, no; it can't be! _

"She is the first of us to fall," he heard Enjolras say, "We shall fight in Eponine's name."

Javert turned his face to the wall and wept.


	3. Is There Another Way to Go?

**Good evening, dear readers; lovely evening my dears!**

**I'm sorry I haven't updated this story in forever––real life has kept me extremely busy lately, and in the few moments I did have to write I've been held up with writer's block. Tonight I finally was able to push through it, and even though I should probably have been doing other stuff, I wanted to get this chapter up for you all. My life, unfortunately, will continue to be crazy, so I'm not sure when I'll be able to update again, but I have a good idea of where I'm going with this story, and I'm gonna try my best to get the next chapter up before summer ends. Thanks for bearing with me :)**

Shouts and gunfire rang out once again. Javert gritted his teeth. He was not sure how much longer he could tolerate this perversion of justice. Were those boys going to persist until every one of them lay dead in the street? If they cared nothing for their own lives, very well. But what of the families they would leave behind? And what of Gavroche, who all but worshipped them––would he lose his life before he had even begun to live it? And he, Javert, was powerless to stop them, unable even to witness the battle.

The battle could not have lasted long. It was more of a skirmish than a proper battle. As the gunshots died down, he heard voices, and footsteps approaching the café. Two young men came in; one kept a firm grasp on Javert's shoulders while the other undid the rope that bound him to the chair. The two seized him by the arms and marched him to the door. Javert kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He knew what was coming next. He only hoped they would be quick about it. "Inspector," he heard Enjolras say, "We can hold you captive no longer. Your fate is to be decided by this man." The two students who were holding Javert released him. Javert raised his head to look his killer in the face. His eyes widened, and he bit his tongue to keep from shouting. He was standing face to face with the man whose face had haunted his memories for nearly twenty years. Aged as it was, there was no mistaking that face. Prisoner 24601. Jean Valjean.

Enjolras handed a gun to the elder man. "Monsieur, you must do as you see fit," he said. Valjean nodded solemnly. "Yes, Monsieur Enjolras," he said. Javert's hands were still bound behind his back. Valjean grasped his wrist. "Come, Inspector," he said. Javert had no choice but to follow him. Valjean led him into a narrow alley. He let go of Javert's arm and turned to face him. Javert met his eyes with a steely glare. "It appears I am your prisoner now," he said through clenched teeth, "You couldn't have planned this better. Might as well get it over with quickly."

Valjean calmly laid the gun down. "Inspector Javert," he said, "you talk too much." He drew a small knife out of the inside pocket of his coat. "Of course," Javert snorted, "You _would_ kill with a knife." Valjean gripped the rope that bound Javert's wrists; Javert heard the faint gritting noise of a blade splitting through the fibers. The severed bits of rope dropped to the pavement. Javert's arms fell naturally to his sides. He whirled around to face Valjean. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. Valjean slipped the knife back into his coat pocket. "It means," he said, "you are free to go."

There was no trace of malice or bitterness in his voice; only a kind of sadness in his eyes, which held Javert's in a steady gaze. Javert remained rigid, defying Valjean to look at him that way. "You're plotting something," he muttered, "This is some sort of trap. I refuse to be led into it." Valjean shook his head with a heavy sigh. "Inspector," he said, "When you first knew me, I was a man without hope, sure that the world held nothing but hardship and injustice. But I was given a chance to begin my life anew. And I resolved to help others who had once been as unfortunate as I. Now I am offering the same chance to you, and I pray you will not let your principles stand in the way of the work God calls you to do."

Behind them, in the square, Enjolras could be heard giving orders to the students. Valjean glanced down the alley with a decisive nod. "You had better get go," he said, "No doubt our paths will cross again." He bent down and picked up the gun. "Go."

Javert took a few hesitant steps, looking back over his shoulder every few strides. Years of police work had made him loathe to turn his back to a convict with a gun. Valjean's eyes were still steadily fixed on him, but he was not threatening. Javert reached the end of the alley, turned the corner, and took off running. He heard the sharp crack of a gunshot behind him––the gunshot that was meant for him, fired instead into the air. He kept running. He had no idea where he was going, and did not care. Along the narrow, winding streets he ran, through deepening shadows and the yellow glare of street lamps, until his legs were sore and his breath came in ragged gasps.

The shouts of the battle and the smell of burnt gunpowder were far behind him now. He finally slowed his pace to a walk, taking in his surroundings. Only then did he realize he had run all the way to the river. He stopped to catch his breath, and laid his hand against the round top of the stone pillar at the end of the bridge. When he had stopped gasping for breath, he began to walk slowly across the bridge, running his hand across the top of the railing.

He had not noticed that the sun was setting, perhaps because it had been hidden behind heavy gray clouds for most of the day. But the clouds had cleared now, and between the railings of the bridge, he could see the stairs and a thin crescent moon wavering on the water's surface. He peered down at them, too wearied to raise his head and see them in the sky. They were constant, those stars––the clouds might cover them, but they were always there, each night, without fail. If only life were that predictable.

It was on this very bridge, not even four months earlier, that he had caught a glimpse of a ragged figure in the middle of a snowstorm, disappearing down the stone steps. He had followed, and discovered the Thénardier children under the bridge, huddled together against the cold. The weeks that followed were anything but predictable…and yet, Javert had never been quite so happy in his life.

But those times were long gone. As suddenly and unexpectedly as they had come into his life, and Gavroche and his sisters had left. Azelma had all but disappeared. Now Eponine was gone for good. And Gavroche seemed determined to follow her.

He had reached the highest point of the bridge. He pressed the palms of his hands down on the flat top of the railing, leaning over the river and peering down into the dark water. By all rights, he should not even have been standing there now. He was supposed to have been shot––but for some bizarre reason, Valjean had let him go. It was a disruption of the way things were meant to happen. Justice inverted. Reason stood on its head. It seemed he could not trust anything anymore. Everything he thought he knew turned out to be something else entirely. His simple, orderly, black-and-white world was falling to pieces, crashing down around him.

Javert leaned over the railing. It occurred to him that he could set at least one thing to rights. He could correct Valjean's deviation from the plan. He could escape the chaos of this world once and for all.

He closed his eyes. The sights and sounds of the day flooded his mind. Amid the chaos, one voice––one face––one person stood out: Gavroche. Gavroche the mischief-maker, the disturber of plans, the bringer of laughter, the smallest revolutionary, the child with the heart of a hero. Gavroche who was unpredictability itself––who for that very reason, Javert realized, had made the past few months of his life worth living. Javert had gone to the barricade that day with a mission, and that was one plan he could still carry out. He would go back to the barricades. He would make sure that Gavroche made it out alive.


	4. Never Kick a Dog Because He's Just a Pup

**Here we are at long last, dear readers! Thank you for your patience. College life is demanding a lot of time and energy, so I'm afraid updates for this and other stories will be slow. For those of you kind enough to stick with my stories, thank you for your encouragement and your enthusiasm. **

**IAmYourSinger2006 has written a story called "I Won't Desert You Now" that incorporates the Javert saving the Thénardier kids plot from "To Drive the Cold Winter Away," and would appreciate your reviews.  
**

**Without further ado…chapter 4!**

Dawn's first light was creeping into the sky when Javert returned to the barricade. Concealed in the shadows of an alleyway, he could just barely hear a few low voices on the students' side. Further down the street, the National Guard was stirring and waking. Javert crept around the back of a building, keeping close to the wall, and cautiously stepped out into the street. A lookout saw him coming, and signaled to the commanding officer. The colonel approached with long, quick strides. "Inspector," he said, "You were expected to report back several hours ago; where have you been?"

"I was detained, Colonel Andres," said Javert, "A young boy––"

Andres held up a hand to halt his explanation. "Never mind," he said, "What do you hear?"

Javert spoke in a low, even voice, looking the colonel straight in the eye. "What I hear," he said, "are voices crying out for justice, for equality, for freedom from poverty––if we silence those voices, others will cry out in their place. Perhaps instead we should listen to them. I hear a group of boys who think they can change the world. And they very well might––not by waging war, but by putting their intelligence and passion to work serving their fellow men. It is a generation of courage and honor, Colonel––let us not destroy it before it has a chance to rise."

Andres raised one of his bushy eyebrows skeptically. "The inspector has turned poet on us, I see," he said, "Come, Javert, I have no time for this. How can we put an end to this schoolboys' sport?"

"That is just my point, Colonel," said Javert. "They are little more than boys, many of them––they cannot weigh the consequences of their actions now. And there is a child among their ranks, Colonel; a boy no more than twelve––"

"Inspector," said Andres, "have you any information to give, or have you not?"

Javert slowly shook his head. "All I am asking," he said, "is that you hold off your attack. Give them a chance to surrender peacefully."

The colonel tugged thoughtfully on the end of his moustache. "It's worth consideration," he said. "Very well, Inspector. But if they refuse to lay down their arms, we shall have to take the barricade by force."

He strode past Javert and took up his position in the center of the street. The blue-coated soldiers raised their guns to their shoulders, but he held up a hand to stop them. "You at the barricade, listen to this!" he called, in a deep booming voice, "As you can see, 'the people' have not come to your aid. As you are young, we will give you another chance to give up this folly. Surrender now, and your lives will be spared."

For a moment, all was silent. A slight, warm breeze blew down the street, and at that moment a hand grasped the flagpole at the top of the barricade, and straightened it so that the flag billowed out. Enjolras's face appeared next to the flag, his golden curls tossed by the wind. "We will never surrender!" he shouted, "If we fall, others will rise to take our place until the earth is free!"

Colonel Andres set his jaw in a grim line. "Take aim," he said to the soldiers, "Fire."

Javert slumped against a doorframe, his hands clenched in the pockets of his jacket. He tried not to think about the shots being fired on the barricade. The students were returning fire. He wondered how long they could hold out.

When the shots died down, Javert looked up. The battle could not be over already. In the stillness, he heard the quiet sound of a small voice singing––a voice he knew all too well.

_And little people know_

_ When little people fight_

_ We may look easy pickings,_

_ But we've got some bite!_

Gavroche! Javert bolted from the doorway. Even at a distance, he could plainly see the tiny figure at the foot of the barricade, scavenging for bullets and gunpowder. Several students leaned over the top of the barricade, their eyes fixed on their smallest comrade-in-arms. But what terrified Javert was the group of soldiers in the middle of the street, with their guns trained on the boy. One of the soldiers fired; Gavroche swiftly ducked, and flashed a cheeky grin toward the soldiers. There was only a slight tremor in his voice as he continued to sing.

From the sidelines, Colonel Andres observed the scene with a grim expression. Javert ran toward him. "Colonel," he said, "tell the men to stop. He's just a child!"

"Inspector," said Andres, "we have been over this before. I gave them a chance to surrender. They refused. Now they must accept the consequences of that choice."

"But Colonel, sir," said Javert, "This boy––he's but a child, no more than twelve years old. You cannot take the life of a child."

"Are they fools enough to allow a child amongst them, in the middle of a battle?"

Javert nodded. "Please," he said, "call off your men, tell them to cease fire!"

"Is he any relation to them?" Andres asked, "A son, or brother?"

Javert sighed impatiently. "No, as far as I know, he is not related to any of them; he is simply a brave young boy who has the courage to risk his life for his friends."

Andres raised an eyebrow. "Do you condone his behavior, Inspector?" he asked.

Another gunshot rang out. Gavroche fell to his knees. A pained gasp interrupted his song, but he caught his breathe and kept singing.

"It doesn't matter whether I agree with him or not!" said Javert, "I will not stand by and let you kill a child!"

He ran toward the group of soldiers. "Stop!" he cried, "Hold your fire!"

A third shot split the air. Gavroche crumpled to the pavement. Javert pushed past the soldiers and ran straight toward the barricade. "Enough of this!" he cried. Both the soldiers and the students stared incredulously. One of the young men peering over the top of the barricade sprang forward, but Enjolras laid a hand on his arm, keeping him back. Javert dropped to his knees beside Gavroche. The boy was lying facedown, a crimson stain slowly spreading over the cobblestones beneath him. Javert gently turned him over, grimacing at the blood that soaked through his ragged shirt and vest. Gavroche moaned quietly––he was still alive, but he needed to get help quickly if he was to remain so. Javert caught him up in his arms and made for the nearest alley. No one from either side followed him. He set Gavroche down on the pavement and took off his own jacket, wrapping it around the boy's waist. He slipped the red scarf off Gavroche's neck and used it to tie the jacket in place. It was a clumsy bandage, but hopefully it would stop the bleeding somewhat. He lifted Gavroche again, cradling him in his arms the same way he had on that winter night when he had found him under the bridge. He started walking, as quickly as he could while carrying the boy. Hurrying through the unoccupied back streets, he made his way out of the battle zone, and finally turned onto one of the main roads. A milk delivery wagon was rattling down the street; Javert stepped out in front of it so that the driver was forced to bring his horse to an abrupt halt. Before he could say a word, Javert climbed into the back of the wagon. "To the hospital," he told the driver, "And quickly."


End file.
